Saturday Night
by Broadwaylover5300
Summary: Hairspray fic. Amber meets an old friend in a bar one night that helps her rejuvenate her life.


**Hi! I haven't written a ****songfic**** in a long, long time, and I decided that it was time for me to write another one!**

**The song in this one is Piano Man by Billy Joel. I don't own the song (or Hairspray or its characters, for that matter).**

**Oh, and BTW: there are some references to "alcoholic beverages" (I hate how that sounds, but there's no other "classy" way to say it), so be warned, if that kind of stuff offends you.**

_It's five o'clock on a Saturday_

_The regular crowd shuffles in_

_There's an old man sitting next to me_

_Making love to his tonic and gin_

Amber walked into the bar and looked around.

It was a typical Saturday night, the night when the bar seemed particularly melancholy. Smoke hung heavy in the air, and the piano player sat in his corner, playing softly and sending soft tunes floating through the air. The only light came from the neon lights glowing dimly, sending a soft reddish-purple glow throughout the room, and moonbeams glowing softly through the window.

Amber slowly walked over to her usual barstool and sat down on the comfortable, padded, red-satin lined top. She put her elbows up on the counter and rested her head in her hands.

The bartender walked up to her. "What'll it be tonight, Amber?"

Amber looked up slowly and said, "Just a tonic and water tonight, Jim."

"Oh. Taking it easy tonight?" the bartender asked.

"Yeah," Amber replied softly.

Suddenly, the door banged open and she heard somebody hurry over and slump down in the stool next to her. Amber didn't even have to look up to know who it was. It was Tom Walsh, a man who used to work at the station before her mother had fired him for, in her mother's words, "not knowing his place." Amber hadn't bothered to ask either her mother or Tom what that meant, but it didn't matter anyway. All that did matter was that he was out of a good job and now worked in a boring job at some warehouse. Amber knew all too well how he felt, seeing as how she was also stuck in a dead-end job at a factory that made little accessories that, as far as Amber knew, weren't really useful for anything.

_He said, "Son, can you play me a memory?_

_I'm not really sure how it goes_

_But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete_

_w__hen__ I wore a younger man's clothes."_

Amber listened as the piano player continued to play his soft, sweet tunes as the people in the bar continued to talk. Saturday night seemed to be the night when all the washed-up people came in, the people that life had chewed up and spit out, the people who had been pushed off of the speeding train of success by the crowd and were left, broken and bleeding, by the side of the tracks, and talked about how great their lives could have been had they just clung onto that train for just a little longer.

_Sing us a song, you're the piano man_

_Sing us a song tonight_

_Well, we're all in the mood for a melody_

_And you've got us __feelin__' all right_

Amber listened as the music from the piano permeated every part of the room. The music always made her feel good, no matter how low she was. The music always found its way to her and penetrated her body, injecting new life into every fiber of her being, rejuvenating her and preparing her for a new week.

Amber closed her eyes and was preparing to let the music take her away when she heard a familiar voice behind her say, "Amber?"

Amber turned around and stared up into the familiar face behind her, and she couldn't help but let a smile spread across her face. "Link!"

_It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday_

_And the manager gives me a smile_

_'__cause__ he knows that it's me they've been coming to see_

_To forget about life for a while_

"What are you doing here?" Link asked.

"Oh, I come here every Saturday night," Amber replied, trying to hide the excitement in her voice.

"Oh," Link replied, looking around. "You know, I've never come in here before. What's it like?"

"Well…" Amber said, looking around the bar. She pointed at the bartender and said, "That's Jim. He owns and operates this place. He's a good guy, you can always count on him for a drink or a smoke or a joke or if you just need somebody to talk to." Amber pointed to the waitress next. "That's Marie. She ran for city council before she lost in a crushing defeat. She still knows quite a bit about politics though and she can help you with any other situation like that." Amber proceeded to point out several other people in the bar, the last one being the piano player. "That's Tom. He's the only one who's really got talent in this whole place. He plays here every night, but he could probably get a job at anywhere he wanted."

Link nodded, listening to the music. "That's nice music. It really gets you in a nice state of mind."

"So, what are you doing here?" Amber asked.

Amber listened as Link let his story spill out, his story about how he had signed a deal with Capitol Records, only to have his first record completely bomb out and causing the company to prematurely terminate his contract, about his struggle to find a job, and his eventual employment as a crewman on a freighter, hauling machinery, lumber, and pretty much anything else one could think of. The more Amber heard of Link's story, the more she wanted to take him in her arms, kiss him, and tell him that everything was all right. She could tell that Link felt the same way about her as she looked in his eyes.

_And the piano, it sounds like a carnival_

_And the microphone smells like a beer_

_And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar_

_And say, "Man, what are you doing here?"_

As soon as Amber finished telling her story to Link, she asked, "Would you like to come home with me? I know that seems a little forward, but I'd really like to spend the night with somebody."

Link looked at her for a few minutes, then nodded. "Yeah, I'd like that, too."

Amber and Link got up from the bar and started toward the door. On her way out the door, Amber dropped a ten-dollar bill in the jar that the piano player kept on the top of his piano.

_Well, sing us a song, you're the piano man_

_Sing us a song tonight_

_Well, we're all in the mood for a melody_

_And you've got us __feelin__' all right_


End file.
